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I IT SOTsLTsLETS 



Wordsworth 



JCmas ; 1909 



C ' 3 



Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars 

Through the grey west ; and lo ! these waters, steeled 

By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield 

A vivid repetition of the stars ; 

Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars 

Amid his fellows beauteously revealed 

At happy distance from earth's groaning field, 

Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars. 

Is it a mirror? — or the nether Sphere 

Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds 

Her own calm fires ? — But list ! a voice is near ; 

Great Pan himself low- whispering through the reeds, 

' ' Be thankful, thou ; for, if unholy deeds 

Ravage the world, tranquillity is here ! " 



[ " ] 



With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, 

Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed ; 

Some lying fast at anchor in the road, 

Some veering up and down, one knew not why. 

A goodly Vessel did I then espy 

Come like a giant from a haven broad ; 

And lustily along the bay she strode, 

Her tackling rich, and of apparel high. 

This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her, 

Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look ; 

This Ship to all the rest did I prefer : 

When will she turn, and whither ? She will brook 

No tarrying ; where She comes the winds must stir 

On went She, and due north her journey took. 



L *" ] 



A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, 
One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky ; 
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 
Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' melodies 
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees ; 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
•Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, 
And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any stealth : 
So do not let me wear to-night away : 
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? 
Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health ! 



C 'v 3 



The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 
Little we see in nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
The sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 
Jt moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 



CXLIII COPIES PRINTED 
BY BRUCE ROGERS